Sound Bites: A Rock & Roll Love Story (6 page)

“You can come by anytime, as long as you leave that bitchy attitude of yours at the door,” he said. I sensed that he was joking, but he didn’t smile. “Just make sure there isn’t a red Blazer in the parking lot because Christina is pretty jealous as it is, so unexpected female visitors might set her off.”

“Understood. I’ll see you later.”

I turned around and began to descend the stairs. I was about halfway down when I heard Dylan’s door creak open.

“Hey, California.”

I looked up and saw him staring down at me from the top of the stairs.

“Yeah?”

He grinned. He had a sexy, crooked grin where only the left side of his mouth shifted upwards. I grinned back stupidly, even though I had no idea what he was about to say.

“You know, you’re not half bad.”

Before I had a chance to reply, he had already disappeared back into his apartment. 

Chapter
7

It had been over a week and I still couldn’t get Dylan’s voice out of my head. The red Blazer had been in the parking lot nearly every night, and even on the nights when it wasn’t there, I didn’t have the balls to show up on his doorstep again. I didn’t want him thinking I’d been permanently perched at the window, eagerly awaiting the departure of the Blazer, even though I was about one window-perch away from becoming a certified stalker.

On my way home from work, I grabbed a bottle of wine and a romantic comedy to mask my depression about spending another Friday night alone in my apartment. After settling down on my couch with a glass of Cabernet, I picked up the phone and dialed Beth’s number.

“Do you remember that guy I was telling you about the other night?” I asked her. “The one whose van I backed into in the parking lot?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I proceeded to fill her in on my night with Dylan. For once, she didn’t interrupt me until I was finished.

“Well he definitely scores points in the music department if he listens to Jeff,” she said. I had turned Beth onto Buckley’s music years ago, and she now always referred to him as “Jeff,” like they were on a first name basis. “So, what’s up with this new guy? Is he cute?”

“Sort of,” I replied. “In a dangerous, tortured kind of way.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“You know, the type of guy who doesn’t own a hairbrush or a razor and looks like he hasn’t eaten in a really long time.”

“Oh, gotcha. But other than the hobo look, is he attractive?”

“Yeah, you know, the bed head look actually suits him. It gives him character. But, he’s kind of a dick. And he has a girlfriend.”

“Oh, bummer. Well, how’s
everything else going? You
unpacked?”

“Yeah, I just…” My response was cut short when I heard a knock at my door. I told Beth to hold on and opened my door, only to find myself face to face with Dylan. He jutted his chin out at me as his way of saying hello, then darted his eyes nervously around my living room.

“Hey,” he greeted. “Bad time?”

I held my index finger up, motioning for him to hold on. “Beth, let me call you back, okay?”

“I hear a guy in the background!” she yelled. I prayed that my phone volume wasn’t loud enough for Dylan to overhear. “Is it that guy that lives upstairs?”

“Yes, it is,” I replied, trying to sound casual. “I’ll call you tomorrow okay?”

“You better.”

I hung up the phone and motioned for Dylan to come inside. He followed me into the living room, peering around like he felt out of place.

“I saw your car outside,” he explained. “I didn’t know if you were doing anything tonight. I’ve been working on some songs that I thought you might want to hear.”

I was psyched that Dylan’s performance wasn’t going to be just a one-time thing, not to mention the fact that I wouldn’t have to spend another pathetic Friday night alone. “Sure, sounds good,” I said, making a horribly failed attempt at sounding cool. “Why don’t you go grab your guitar and bring it down here? My apartment is a little, um, cleaner.”

“And green, not to mention. What’s up with the neon walls?”

“Oh,” I said, laughing. I had gotten so used to the color that I was completely oblivious to it now. “Apparently
the gay gays that lived here before me liked
bright colors.”

“Guess they don’t call ‘em flaming for nothing,” he joked, as he made his way out the door. He reappeared several minutes later, guitar in hand, and propped himself down on my floor. As he fiddled around with the strings, I noticed his gray t-shirt exposed three Chinese symbol tattoos that ran vertically down his right forearm.

“What do those mean?” I asked, pointing to the tattoos.

“Courage, strength and faith.” He looked down at his arm as if seeing it for the first time. “Three of the most important traits.”

“Sounds like something I could use right about now,” I said, more to myself than to him.

Dylan continued to toy with his guitar for a minute, and then placed it on the rug next to him. “So, were you serious about why you moved back here? You know, because…” His voice trailed off.

“Because my best friend slept with my boyfriend?” I asked. “It’s okay, you can say it. And yes, I was serious.”

He winced. “You want to talk about it?”

I shook my head, because in truth, I didn’t. But after a moment, I could feel the unspoken words hanging in the air, like some sort of silent presence, and I knew the only way to make them disappear was to acknowledge it.

***

Conquering the quarter-life crisis is much harder than you’d think. It changes the way you look at everything, your job, your goals, your relationships. As soon as the dreaded twenty-five starts creeping around the corner, you feel like the world is going to end. You have so much to do, and so little time to do it. Your passions and goals in life suddenly spring out of left field, reminding you that you only have five years left to backpack through Europe, land your dream job, and find the person you’re destined to spend forever with. Because once you turn thirty, you could wake up one day married with three kids, working a dead-end job, and realize you never traveled or pursued your career goals, and now, all of a sudden, it’s too late. Or, even worse, you could end up thirty and alone.

Part of me suspects that I think this way because of how I was raised. My father, for some unknown reason, has always
been in a giant rush to marry me off. He always told me that I had to act fast because
once
I turned thirty “all the good ones would be taken.” Those were his exact words. Like I had a choice as to when I would cross paths with
The One
.

Luckily for me, the career aspect of my crisis was covered now that I’d landed a job as a music writer. And the traveling, of course, was something I could arrange between now and the next five years. But what was really weighing on my conscience was the relationship aspect of things.

“Hey J,” I’d said to Justine, who was sprawled on our living room sofa watching an E! True Hollywood Special on Angelina Jolie. “Do you ever think about marriage?”

She looked at me like I was insane “As in, do I ever think I’ll get married?”

“Yeah.”

She laughed wickedly. It was a stupid question. Justine was the biggest commitment-phobe I’d ever met.
While most people acquired a handful of lasting, meaningful relationships throughout the
course of their life, Justine
acquired a new one just about every weekend. She had dated every type of guy under the sun, but typically got bored with them after a few dates and moved onto the next one.

“I’m serious,” I’d insisted. “Have you ever been with
someone who
you could picture yourself marrying?”

“No,” she’d said, without hesitation.

“What about Mark?”

Justine’s longest relationship to date was with Mark Wheeler, an adorable real estate agent who was the poster boy for the ideal husband. For the likes of me, I couldn’t imagine how this guy ended up with Justine. Considering the fact that she
and I had been friends since age fourteen, I knew more or less the type of guys that she was into. No job? Check. Motorcycle? Check. In a band? Absolutely. Long hair? Tattoos? Double che
ck. Tom Brady look-a-like with responsibility, brains and a
great resume
? Not so much.

Mark was perfect on paper,
but I knew exactly why Justine grew bored with him. H
e was just too damn nice. He was the one of those guys that you reall
y wanted to like because you kne
w your mother and grandmother would adore the shit out of him, but when it came down to wanting to rip his clothes off, the burning desire just wasn’t there. Women never liked the nice guys; it was an unspoken rule. We liked the dickheads, the pompous asses, the narcissistic bastards. We wanted a guy to act like they didn’t give a shit about us because then they presented a challenge. Of course, women never said this aloud. We always said “Oh, I wish I could find a nice guy” but what we really meant was “Oh, I wish I could find some arrogant prick who loved me.”

Justine shook her head. “Definitely not with Mark. He was so routine. The most exciting thing he ever did was throw away the Sunday paper without reading about the stock market section first.” She crinkled her brow. “What are you getting at?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I love David and everything, but I just feel like something’s… missing.”

Deep down, I knew exactly what it was.
It was that profound, meaningful connection with another person. That spiritual soul connection. That feeling that you’d known each other forever. That share of common beliefs and interests. That painful
aching
for each other. I enjoyed David’s company and loved being around him, but when I thought about true love and all the things that came with it – weddings, honeymoons, having a family, committing to spending all of eternity with one
person – that blissful feeling that I searched for was nowhere
to be found.
And not to mention, t
here was no way I could visualize spending
forever
with a guy who thought Muse was a clothing brand.

Justine leaned forward in her seat. “Renee, are you saying you want to break up with David?”

I shook my head, because in all honesty, I didn’t want to break up with him. I just hated the fact that, once your mid-twenties caught up to you, you actually had to take these things into consideration. You couldn’t just date someone for the fun of it anymore. You had to think about marriage, kids, forever. And the more time I spent with someone who I didn’t see myself marrying, the more time I was wasting. Or so my father would say.